My Life Story - The Tale of Greg and Jami

 Ok, so time's going to get a bit wibbly wobbly here, but bear with me. So, the year is 1996. My boyfriend at the time was back in prison for who knows how long (parole violation after aggravated robbery). I had been seeing another guy who was really quite garbage (it was a theme for the time period), broke up with him and started seeing his best friend who was a decent person, but still part of the same crowd of people. They were literally neonazi skinheads, the story of how I came to be acquainted with them will be later in the blog. Names have been changed. 

Anyway, I was living in Hobbs, New Mexico. My parents were getting ready to move to Texarkana, TX and wanted me to go with them. I wasn't working currently, I had just finished a semester of Junior College and was planning on starting back in the spring. I was seeing Liam, who was sweet and young. His best friend, Thomas, was kind of in the picture, but not really. My ex, Peter, was in Lea County Jail waiting extradition to the state penitentiary. I was staying with another friend, I don't remember his name, but he was a sweet guy. He was one of the few guys I knew at the time who was not a romantic/sexual interest. Just a quick recap of the previous year: I had gotten pregnant by Peter and miscarried, he told me the day that I found out I was miscarrying that he had been cheating on me and didn't think our relationship would last, just a few days after that he came home with a hickey from some other girl on his neck. I still wanted him, though, and stayed until his next meeting with his parole officer when he popped positive for weed in his urine and was arrested again. That's when I started hooking up with Thomas, who almost anally raped me at one point and then threatened to hit me when I told him that I didn't care for him, he was just a replacement in my bed for Peter. Then I hooked up with Liam. So that's kind of a back story of that year. It's January, my parents are packing and I've moved into my friend's house. He was a hoarder and his house was a maze of old electronics and newspapers, I had my own room but the bathroom was just big enough for a shower and the house reeked of old cigarettes and mold. My parents asked one last time if I wanted to go with them, and I finally caved and got my stuff, packed up, and we headed out. 

We stopped at my step-sister's house. She and I talked and this is fuzzy, I can't remember if I planned to live wither from the start or if I decided when we stopped at her place. Anyway, I ended up staying at her house in Carrollton, TX (near Dallas) with her, her husband, and their 5 year old daughter. I applied for different jobs, got one at the Galleria Mall working for some testing company, I was supposed to ask shoppers questions and get them to sample products and such. I worked until my break and then left. 

My sister was a delivery driver for Domino's Pizza. I had worked with her at Domino's in Wake Village, TX for a while and then I worked at the Domino's in Hobbs for a while, even getting up to assistant manager. So, I figured what the heck. I'll work there until I find something better. Little did I know, as soon as my sister knew I was coming, she had started talking to coworkers, trying to get one to be interested in me so I would fall in love and live there forever. I went for my interview, met the manger, Greg, and got hired. My sister asked me what I thought of the guys I would be working with, and I said they were ok, but what about Greg? She said she hadn't thought about him, she thought he had a girlfriend. Well, I talked to him and, again, time gets weird, but I know that one night I came home from work and my sister and I sat up most of the night giggling and talking and I gushed about Greg and his cowboy hat, belt and boots...which, of course, I shared with him at work the next day. Within the week, he had asked me out on a date. We went out to dinner at Dave & Buster's and then his place where he showed me some wicked card tricks, we listened to John Michael Montgomery and then we went to see "12 Monkeys" at The Grand. Then we went back to his place. 

I know time passed, but I don't know how much. It seems like it was that week that my sister left her husband and Greg offered for us to stay at his place. My sister, her daughter and I all moved into his one bedroom apartment in February of 1996. I turned 20 in March and found out I was pregnant about that time. His younger sister moved in with us and got a job at Domino's, she was also pregnant and due about the same time. Since that apartment was very small, we all moved to another apartment in Lewisville, TX. One night, he was on the phone with his mother and I overheard him say "I don't know, probably this summer". I said "How about July?". So, we got married on July 14, 1996. My step-dad officiated, my grandfather walked me down the aisle, and Greg's cousins were his best men. 

We planned to have our wedding at my parents house in Texarkana. The day of our wedding, it rained. We crammed both our families into my parents house and car port, got married, and then took a nap. By the time we woke up, all of the food for the reception had been eaten so we had tuna sandwiches as we packed and got ready to drive to his mother's house in Aransas Pass, TX. We spent a night there, then went to a hotel in Corpus Christi. 

Our first child was born on November 12, 1996. 

Within a year, I went from a miscarriage with a nazi to being married to, in my mind, my soul mate, my beautiful daughter, and absolute happiness. My step-dad died that January, so we went to his funeral in Southland, TX. Just a month after our first anniversary, Greg essentially had a nervous breakdown and quit his job at Domino's. We didn't know what we would do, he was talking to an Air Force recruiter but having a hard time connecting. One night, my mother and I were at Eckerd Drug store getting some medicine for my daughter and I saw a Navy recruiter. I jokingly suggested I should get his number for Greg, and as fate would have it, he overheard us. I spoke to him for a minute and exchanged numbers, got his card and by the time I got home, Greg was scheduled for MEPS and he left in September for Great Lakes and Navy Boot Camp. In January, we moved to Everett, WA. 

Greg is not a super emotional man. That works well with me, who tends to be more emotional than necessary. We have always balanced each other, and through everything, we have had each other to turn to. He reaches through my darkest times and gives me solid ground to stand on, even when he was out in the middle of the sea. He can make me smile at the worst of times and I can say with absolute certainty, I would not be here without him. 

Now, here we are. Two days from now will be our 25th wedding anniversary, and just like the original, things aren't as we planned. Instead of preparing for a party to celebrate this crazy life we've built together, we are packing for a trip to Corpus Christi to meet with his family and say goodbye to the family matriarch, Big G, Greg's grandmother (his mother's mother). 

And, like we do with everything, we take it in stride, work together to make the trip, and make the best of a pretty grim situation. We will see family we haven't seen in forever, we will see places we've wanted to show the kids, and we will take a day to go to San Antonio and visit the Natural Bridge Caverns. And then, we will be home in time to have a small pot luck party with local friends to celebrate 25 years of working together to overcome every obstacle, raise four amazing people, traveling from coast to coast and loving each other through thick and thin, sickness and health, until our lives together end. 

My Life Story, Part 1- Redwater

 Hi! After talking to some people at work, I have been thinking about this life I've had the privilege to lead, and I think I'm going to tell my story. My whole story. It's weird, and it's long, and hopefully it will be entertaining enough that somebody might be like "hey, I don't regret the time I spent reading this!"

As a preface, I want to note that my mother was a bit more open with me than many parents are with their children, so I learned details that I probably didn't need to know, at least I didn't need to know them as early as I did. I was born on March 18, 1976 at Wadley Hospital in Texarkana, Texas. My mother never married my father, though I understand they were engaged for a while. He had a daughter when they met, he had recently divorced. According to my mother, he was an alcoholic but not a bad man. He loved his daughter and he loved his ex wife. He and my mother dated, I don't know how long, but they broke up and he remarried his ex wife. I am not sure, but I've always believed they broke up just before my mother found out I was on the way.  My mother often told me the circumstances of my conception. She had worked that day and they were not supposed to see each other, she was tired and went to bed. Apparently, at some point in the night, he came over and woke her, she said she woke up in the middle of intercourse, and her first thought was that they should not be doing this, it's the wrong time, and then she tried to imagine what their child would look like. The only thing she could think of was Alfred E. Neuman from Mad Magazine. You know, this is the first time I have realized that I am technically the product of rape. 

Now, my mother truly loved my father. She told me often that he was really her "one true love". But, he felt the same way about his ex wife. When she took him back, they remarried and she promptly became pregnant with my younger half sister; younger than me by three weeks. I think my mother has told me stories of my father meeting me, but I really don't know if that is true or if it is something I made up to make me feel like he ever saw me. I know that he worked at Red River Army Depot with my grandmother, that is how he was introduced to my mother. My grandmother decided that he would be a good match for her and introduced them. My mother said she wasn't immediately attracted to him. She said their first date she was stood up, but found out it was because he had been in a car accident, so she gave him a second chance. 

I know that I had met my grandparents, my mother told me that my grandfather enjoyed when I came over. He passed away in 1977. My father died in an accident at work on February 2, 1978. He is buried at Holy Cross Cemetery in Texarkana, Texas. 

We lived off and on with my grandma, who was also an alcoholic and abusive. She was in and out of abusive relationships, and when she was between boyfriends she would live with us, or when things went wrong in places, my mother would move in with her. I know at one point my mother and grandma fought and my grandma kicked my mother out of the house, but told her she couldn't keep me. I was a pawn in their relationship. I was always close to my grandma. 

In the process of moving around, one of the places we lived  was a trailer in a very bad neighborhood. My mother said she had gone to a Tupperware party one night. She brought me into the house and set her purse on the porch. She went back out to get the items she had bought and when she came back, her purse had been stolen. I was safe. In another place we lived, there was an elderly woman who lived a few houses down. My mother said that I would go into the bathroom, strip off all my clothes, and leave to go see "Miss Fanny". 

In September, 1978, my younger sister, AJ, was born. I will not use the full names in this blog. She was a sickly child, having breathing problems from birth. My mother fought with doctors for a diagnosis, she knew the symptoms of asthma, but doctors insisted a child cannot be born with asthma, and that it was just bronchitis, or a cold, or anything else. They prescribed medication that would exacerbate her symptoms. At 2 years old, my baby sister barely weighed 12 lbs. Just before Halloween in 1980, she had a severe asthma attack. My mother called an ambulance, but we lived out in the middle of nowhere in Redwater, Texas. The ambulance passed our house, so she ran out to go up the driveway to flag them down. I was left to watch over my sister, and one of my very first memories is kneeling beside the couch, my sister a strange shade of blue, as my mother screamed at the top of her lungs from the front door. It's just a picture in my head, but it's been reinforced by the  many tellings of the story by my mother. They took my sister in the ambulance, I stayed with a neighbor, and my mother rode to the hospital. My sister was not breathing, they were able to resuscitate her but she went 5 minutes without breathing. The doctors said they didn't know if there would be lasting brain damage or to what extent. As a toddler, my sister was precocious and observant, to the point that my mother said she had psychic abilities. She seemed to know things before they happened. After her asthma attack, she lost that. She was still precocious, but that extra spark was gone, according to my mother. 

My sister was hospitalized through Halloween. My mother asked the neighbor to come to our house and get my costume, but they didn't. I was taken to my Aunt and Uncle's house (my mother's brother) and spent Halloween with them and their two daughters, my cousins. As I didn't have a costume, they made me a typical ghost costume. Unfortunately, the sheet didn't fit smoothly over my head and, apparently, made a bit of a point. One of my mother's hilarious stories was how the Black families along our trick or treat route were taken aback and had to ask "Are you a ghost?", while my innocent 4 year old self would smile shyly, nod, and hold out my pillow case. 

Because of her health issues, AJ got more of my mother's affection and attention. I had my grandma, and it worked for me. 

My mother said I taught myself the alphabet. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias, I think they were 1972. My cousins learned the alphabet, and I always looked up to them, so I decided I would learn my ABC's. I studied the encyclopedias and learned the alphabet. We lived in a house off the highway between Redwater and Texarkana, Texas. My mother didn't work and we didn't have a car. She got into raising rabbits, and there were times when that was the only thing we had to eat. She usually had a friend come out and butcher them in exchange for meat, but at one point her friend was away, the kits had reached butcher age, and she had to do it herself. She said after the first one, she felt like she was going to throw up. But, as with most things, she got used to it and it became part of our life. One of her stories was how a pair of women from a church had come to invite us to service, and one of them asked sweet, innocent 3 year old me, "You have bunny rabbits? What do you do with your bunny rabbits?"

With the glee that only a 3 year old can muster, I responded "We get em, we hit em over the head, we skin em, we cut em up, and then we eat em!" Mother said we never heard from that church again. But, there were many times people from various churches would come to visit. I haven't spent any time thinking about it, but I think my mother might have been seeking some kind of path. We weren't super religious, we would go to Easter service, and later we would go to some Christmas services. But we never went regularly. 

In the winter, things would be hard. My mother usually had somebody take her to town to get groceries. The closest store was a small gas station type place that was probably 5 miles up the highway. I know, at least one time, my mother had to leave me and my sister at home while she walked to the store. I think it was one of these times, she came home and I had done something wrong. She told me to sit in the chair and she would deal with me later. She forgot. I was so frightened, I waited in the chair for hours, before she saw me and remembered that she told me to sit there. One night, I got into her purse and emptied a bottle of perfume, her favorite. It was called "Charlie". She would remind me of things like this regularly, reminding me of things that I broke, or wasted, it was always things. It felt like the things mattered more than me. She had a set of hands that were for ring keeping, she called them her lady hands, and apparently I broke one of those as well. 

I started school at Redwater Elementary. I don't remember any of my teachers names from there, but apparently I was very close to my kindergarten teacher. The only memories of that school that I have are making snakes with play doh and the construction paper shoes that I learned to tie my shoes. Oh and the teacher made a recipe book from student recipes in first grade, I told how to make scrambled eggs. 

From that house, I remember there was a hole in the bathroom floor. I remember there were shelves by the kitchen sink. I remember the car port. I remember having a black and white stick horse that my granddaddy's wife made, I named him Cochise after Little Joe's horse in Bonanza. My uncle would visit and one time he cleaned up the yard and put all the leaves and sticks and debris in the ditch to burn. He burned my stick horse. When my mother asked him why, he said "It was outside". They got into fights frequently, she told me how she actually hit him with my baby bottle at one point, he tried to hit her while she was holding me. I remember one of his girlfriends, we went to her family's house and they had a trampoline. That was probably the first time I ever jumped on a trampoline. 

At one point, a neighbor's dog came over and my mother said she heard me cry, she came out and the Doberman Pinscher was running away and I had scratches on my head from where he had bitten me. He didn't bite hard, but Mother said after she told some friends he disappeared. We had a German Shepherd named Candy who delivered a litter of puppies under my bed. And I had an orange cat named Yankee Doodle. When we moved, we never found him and left him behind. The days before we moved, my cousin stayed with us, she was the same age as me and gave us head lice. We moved from that house in 1982. 

I was a CAET

When I worked for the animal shelter, I became certified to be an animal euthanasia technician. That means I was one of the people who put the kill in the "kill shelter".

I honestly have no clue how many animals I euthanized. Roughly 30-40 a month for 3 years, plus when I would be on call and have to euthanize, probably 1,550 animals? Somewhere in that range. Every one of them was alone. They didn't have a family crying for them. They didn't have an owner holding them, comforting them. I held each one I could in my arms, told them I was sorry. I told them they were good boys/girls. I told them they would be ok now.

Now, I work in a veterinary clinic. We see healthy animals for check ups, sick animals for treatment. Occasionally we have a client come in and their pet is at the end of its life. So far, I have not had one come in and the owner was not there with them in those moments.

After everything I saw and did as an animal control officer, all the lives I took as an animal euthanasia technician, I have a wall. I can see things that would leave many others broken. Not much gets to me when it comes to those things, not in the way that I have to walk away or that I actually cry. I see it, I process it, I think about what caused it, how to prevent it, how to fix it...but I don't cry, I don't break down.

I've noticed, though, that if the door is open when there is a euthanasia, I can't keep that wall up. Seeing families saying goodbye pulls forward all those animals who didn't have anyone, all those kittens who were so sick they couldn't lift their heads, all those dogs so covered in mange that their skin was like an elephant's hide, all the cats who just couldn't beat the upper respiratory infections or who had been attacked by animals and left to die covered in gore and maggots.

I and the person helping me were often the only kindness some of them ever knew, and that kindness was death. Right now, I am hearing people speak of the shelter I worked at, they talk about how we never cared for the animals, how it was just neglect and abuse while they are there. I think about the things I saw, the animals I picked up, the people who discarded these lives like they were old clothes. I really wish everyone could spend a week actually inside an open admission animal shelter. I wish they could see how hard the employees work, how no matter how many animals are adopted out, there's always more coming in.

I remember kitten season, with pregnant feral cats and kittens coming in ten or twenty a day. Nobody wants to adopt a feral cat. Once in a while you'll get somebody looking for a barn cat, but for the most part, if they are that wild they will never go anywhere. And there's always more.

I remember euthanizing 35 cats and kittens in one day. That's just the cats and kittens. And there were still so many. All of the kennels full, and still portable kennels with cats and kittens.

Working at the clinic, there are so many people who "don't believe in" altering their pets. They think it's unmanly to neuter a male dog. They want "just one litter" out of their female. And I remember the deaths.

This healing and recovery process is slow...It's so hard not to take the bait, and teetering on the edge of full separation but not ready to do that, don't really want to...but every other day is some other guilt trip.

I don't want to feel like a bad daughter who took advantage. I don't want to be made to look like the bad guy who kicked a sad old woman out into the cold. I have to get over that fear because no matter what happens, there will be those who see me that way. Those who don't understand the years and years that I suffered. Or those who think that you are supposed to suffer for your parents, they're your parents and you're supposed to love them unconditionally.

I don't have broken bones, I don't have bruises or scars. Not that anyone can see. And all I have is my point of view, so few have actually seen my perspective, because that's how narcissism works...She doesn't realize what she's done. She doesn't realize what she continues to do. She doesn't realize what the guilt has done, how much my health and life has suffered, how much I fear that I am just like her.

I think that is the hardest part. She doesn't know. And there is no way to tell her. I could sit down and pour my heart out (I actually have) and it comes back to bite me in the ass. I "can't let anything go" from the same person who reminds me regularly about how I broke a figurine when I was two. I "exaggerate" or I am too sensitive.

One of the stories I hear the most is how, at less than 2 days old, I got my first spanking. I was "spoiled" and didn't want to be put down. That was how I was raised, believing that I was born spoiled, that I never had a chance, that I am selfish and only pretty on the outside (which I never even believed that much). I don't know how many times I was told that I was ugly on the inside. How selfish I was. Lazy..that's a favorite and one of my triggers. I *HATE* that word, and to be called lazy will trigger me into that 7 year old little girl with anxiety and a "nervous stomach" who doesn't want to do anything because even if I do, it's not good enough.

She posted a meme on my wall that had a list of things "your mother never told you"...one of them was "it hurt every time you cried"

Except, I can't believe that. She seemed to glory in making me cry, in saying exactly what it would take to dig deep into me and hurt me the most. I can't imagine that she would continue to do that KNOWING what it would do...if it hurt her. I think maybe it hurt her to see me cry when it wasn't her doing, but I think part of her enjoyed having that power over me..and I think that's what started making things come to an end, when I stopped caring enough to let it hurt me to the point that it would make me cry like that...that was when I started growing a backbone and realizing what she was doing.

So, I had a person in my dream last night who I haven't seen in a while. He started appearing to me via my dreams just over 15 years ago. He has strawberry blond hair and an impish smile that is contagious. His brilliant blue eyes can reach into your soul and his cute little mouth has full, bow shaped lips.

Usually, when he appears, he's between a year and two years old, but last night he was a bit older, maybe 8 or 9. I know in my heart who he is, though he doesn't have a name and I never saw his face or held him in my arms. Thinking about it, he would be almost 15 right about now. Heck, I don't even know if he was actually a he, but it was right after the miscarriage that my angel baby started visiting me, so I think he was. He visits me most often right before a big change, so maybe something's coming up..the  move or a job or something, but he usually is a sign of something positive. He always makes me happy when I see him.

But, his visit last night and other recent things going on have had me thinking a lot about the loss of a child. It's devastating, no matter the circumstances, and a lot of times it's something that a parent never gets over. I mean, how do you get over something like that? Most often, you don't, you just learn how to keep going.

See, about 15 1/2 years ago, I had a miscarriage. I was devastated, it was the worst day of my life. There were a lot of things going on and, honestly, in hind sight, it was the best possible outcome considering where I was in life. I was only 8 weeks pregnant and it was "just one of those things". No real rhyme or reason to why I lost the baby, but now I know in my heart that it was a sign that I was not where I needed to be and it happened to shake me up and make me grow up.

I've had one other miscarriage, when we were trying to conceive with Alyssa, but for some reason that one didn't shake my foundation like the first. I don't know if it was because I was more stable, both with myself, but with the world around me, I was in a safe place and had support that I didn't have the first time, or if it was just that I had more life experience or what. But, that first one is still with me. I like to believe that his little spirit is with me, watching me, and helping me along. Heck, he may have been my guide all my life and just chose that time to manifest as that little person, I don't know.

But, I almost feel bad saying that I've lost a child. Compared to friends who have lost babies after longer pregnancies, who had either a premature birth and lost the child, or who delivered a baby who wasn't alive, an 8 week miscarriage is small potatoes. I never felt him kick, never heard his heartbeat, never got a chance to pick out a name for him or buy him clothes or toys or set up a nursery for him. I don't have any physical reminders of the possibility of his life.

But I still have that sore spot where he'll always live. That thought of "what if?" even though I know that scenario would not be what was meant to happen, that if that had continued, I would not have the four beautiful and amazing children I have today, or be in the place I am today. You see, it was just a few months after that miscarriage that I got pregnant with my oldest daughter. In fact, within a year of that miscarriage, I had gotten married and had my daughter.

But, I think I will always have that smiling blue eyed boy with me. And I'm ok with that.

On a completely different note, I have recently gotten in touch with some old "friends" on Facebook. These are people that, honestly, I am really surprised that they are on there. They just don't seem the type to really be into social networking, ya know?

Anyway, seeing all the old names, I dug out my old photo album and scanned and uploaded a lot of old pictures. Of course, that sent me strolling down memory lane and I've had a lot of conflicting memories and feelings coming up.

You see, I was not a nice, calm, well mannered teenager. No, I was pretty much as far from that as one can get. I was promiscuous, I was into drugs and drinking and partying. I was involved with people that I would probably have a heart attack if one of my children came in and said "hey mom, meet my new friends".

Oh Naji, you say, you couldn't have been THAT bad. All kids make mistakes, all kids hang with the "wrong people" here and there...look at you now! Mom to 4 kids (all from the same man, to whom you are still married!), lower middle class military family, you don't drink except for random rare occasions, no drugs...Nobody who was THAT bad could be where you are now!

Really. Here are my stats:
Kissed my first boy at 12 (on a dare)
Had intercourse for the first time a few months before I turned 14 (on my neighbor's dog's bed)
My husband was the 29th man I had intercourse with, and I had sex with another guy the night after my husband and my first date, making the total an even 30.
No, I cannot remember all of their names. This was in a short 7 year span, as I was 20 when I met my husband.
I got drunk and high the first time at 14. For a while when I was 18/19 I pretty much stayed stoned on marijuana (pretty much woke up to a joint and went to bed with a bowl).
My junior year of high school was pretty much spent on LSD.
I've also done cocaine and various pills and I honestly can't remember what all else.

So, here I am, kind of peeping into the lives of these people who rode along with me on my bumpier parts of life's journey. Why would I even want to look back at that? Because, deep down (or maybe not so deep) a part of me....misses it...? No, that doesn't sound right. I wouldn't go back to that lifestyle for anything. But, I do reminisce and get nostalgic. I think back and I hate to admit but some of the memories are fond. I cared about these people..I still do. I want to know that they are well.

Not so bad, you may say. They were your old friends. But honestly, I don't know if they really were ever my friends. I don't know if any of them felt anything toward me. You see, I spent a large portion of that time numbed. I was an undiagnosed depressive who was self medicating with sex and drugs. I didn't feel as though anyone cared anything for me, and that I really didn't deserve it even if they did. Which brings me back to, why would I want to look back at this time in my life? Haven't I come so far from that?

Appearances say yes, I've come a LONG way. But I still harbor some of the same self loathing. I wonder if, looking over these people, I may be somehow lancing that wound, perhaps to let some of the poison out and perhaps do some real healing. Or, I am just a masochist who enjoys my own pain far too much. I don't know.